Deep Waters
by imaginarytableclock0913
Summary: Sherlock is drowning, in deep waters. The pain of all the years is bleeding out of Sherlock, and his universe is spinning. How will John save him? (lil bit Mystrade, and John and Sherlock sort out feelings)
1. The Soldier

**Hello! This is my first fanfiction, although I've spent years reading. This takes place immediately after the events of season 4.**

 **Enough, now, enjoy! I hope you like it.**

 **I do not own Sherlock.**

* * *

John woke up to the sound of Sherlock whimpering in his sleep the third time in the night. Though most people thought that it was John who was traumatised from the events of the previous week (almost drowning in a well where someone else had _already_ drowned), it actually was Sherlock who really needed the support. But Sherlock being his I-don't-feel-anything self didn't really help.

If Sherlock was Pinnochio, his nose would've been a metre long for all the times he said "I'm alright" when he really wasn't.

Sherlock was living with John at his place, since the flat was in tatters due to that patience grenade Eurus sent with _that_ darned creepy song which really pissed John off. Why do these Holmes kids have to be so shady all the time? He really wished that they'd sort their shit out without jumping to conclusions and almost blowing each other up.

They went to Baker Street on Tuesday. Mrs. Hudson looked more pissed than hurt, so he guessed that was nice. First thing Sherlock looked for was his skull. He almost treated the skull as if it was his baby. He'd make a good parent.

Sherlock actually proposed sleeping on his own bed, that a little bit of ash wouldn't do him any harm. Then John ended up almost having to threaten him to come to his place. The thing was, after how he saw Sherlock as a helicopter took his sister away, John didn't trust him alone. Sherlock looked heartbroken, and suspiciously like he had been crying. John really wanted to put a shock blanket on him.

John decided to share his bed. No, it wasn't anything else, but John knew that Sherlock was in the emotional state of a five-tear-old. No, there was no ulterior motive. Yes, Sherlock was pretty and beautiful in his own way, but that didn't mean that John wanted to shag him. He had a stray thought about it once, though.

And John loved him too, in his own way. Sherlock _was_ his other half, but that didn't necessarily it was romantic.

It was pretty awkward. Sherlock was all mysterious with his cheekbone thing while John was trying to figure out how to make him open up. John knew what has happened, but he had no idea what Sherlock felt about it. He was probably traumatised–he always had suppressed his emotions about Redbeard the Dog, and Sherlock finding out about Redbeard his best bud being drowned to death by his younger sister he had forgotten was certainly wasn't good for his mental health.

After 20 minutes of Sherlock just staring at his phone with the screen blank, John decided that enough was enough.

"If there's anything you want to tell me, Sherlock, anything at all, I'm here to listen."

"Okay", Sherlock replied without any emotion. He then proceeded to switch off the lights and went to sleep.

John sighed. Sherlock was impossible.

John knew that Sherlock snored while sleeping, but he didn't today. When he started shaking and whimpering. John ran his hands through Sherlock's messy curls and shushed him to sleep. The second time he did that, John wrapped his arm around his waist.

This time, John was getting really scared. Sherlock turned to face John and proceeded to sob into his shirt.

"I'm so scared, she's going to take you away again."

"Please don't go again, Redbeard."

"There's water everywhere. Please save me."

Sherlock was muttering. In many different ways, in many different stages of desperation, he repeated the same things over and over again.

And all that John could do was wrap his arms around him and cradle him against his chest, wishing that Sherlock knew John would always stay by his side.

This was going to be a long night.


	2. The Helpless Man

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 **I do not own Sherlock**

* * *

They were in their old apartment, cleaning up.

It was blown to apart, all their belongings they so carelessly arranged over the years destroyed.

John was sleep deprived, and Sherlock was bursting with energy, jumping around as he 'cleaned' the place.

To be honest, the place was never clean, tidy, or neat. It was always in this odd form of disorder that allowed them to find every single thing they needed. John had gotten used to Sherlock's habits over the years, and had learnt to remember the places of things. Like when Sherlock was particularly bored, he would put all his cigarettes in his Persian slipper. Or that if there was an unsolved (or boring) case, Sherlock would always stab it. John had to once stop him from stabbing his laptop in a fit of rage.

Whatever it was, there wasn't much furniture left to stab.

"Home sweet home!" Sherlock said out of the blue after about an hour of cleaning.

He then picked up the revolver and shot the wall.

Sometimes John was convinced that Sherlock was a five-year-old. John will have to ask Mycroft.

At the end of the day, they sat down on their chairs and reviewed their work. They had at least cleaned up the debris. They still had a lot of work to do.

* * *

This night was calmer.

The silence was deafening. Even Rosie was quiet. No sobbing or wailing. Nothing to distract John from his thoughts which he had kept at bay.

After Mary's death, John had begun hating aquariums or closed places with water. No, he wouldn't mind a beach, but wells brought back those days when he felt trapped in his own mind and drowning in self-hatred. Maybe Eurus knew. Yes, the game was for Sherlock, but that didn't mean that she couldn't add some ... context for John too. Every single stage of her little game had managed to remind him of all of his bad days. Days after the war when he felt alone, aimless and useless. Days after Sherlock's death when he realised that the very man who had brought him back to life was dead (as it turned out, it was all an elaborate lie, but still). Days after Mary's death when he missed the two people he loved the most, and watched the life he had tried so hard to hold together fall apart.

Every part of the game made him feel helpless or useless, trapped in a well or his own mind. Especially when Mycroft told Sherlock to shoot John because he was _nothing._ Of course, Mycroft was being kind in his own, snakelike way, it still managed to seep through the thick walls he had built around his mind. Because, that's how he felt when he was not around Sherlock. That is how he had felt for his whole life - useless. And when Mycroft said that he was nothing more that a scrap of ordinariness for Sherlock to dazzle, he believed it. Because that is how he had spent his whole life - either useless or helpless.

Also, it felt awful to have Sherlock save him when Sherlock wasn't even able to save himself. John had almost thought that Sherlock wouldn't come at all. That maybe Sherlock was too caught up in his game to care about the fate of his best friend.

But he did come. And that, he realised, was what the game was all about. Eurus was toying with Sherlock's friends because that was about the only thing that could get him to comply. And Eurus wanted to know _why_. John guessed she found out, that there was also this thing called affection when Sherlock showed compassion to her.

John stayed up all night, thinking. About everything. About the consequences of what happened few days before. About how to make things right. He was at a loss. Whenever he got sleepy, bones would jingle around his feet and he would wake up again. And the water was rising again, engulfing him. And he was screaming "SHERLOCK!" but it was too late to save any of them.


	3. The Martyr

**Hey folks!**

 **Hope you're liking the story so far. This is gonna be a long one.**

* * *

Awful. Oh, it was awful!

Mycroft was tired. This little break from his duties was far more tiring than all of his years of service had been. Things were finally going well - Sherlock was off the drugs, and hadn't gotten in much trouble. But then, the East Wind had to come and wreck it all. All those years of planning, plotting, and feeding lies were laid useless. All due to some dumb scientists who had bothered interact with _her_ even with his strict disapproval.

He entered the house, using his keys. Sherlock, in all his drama, had disabled his security systems. Mycroft still shuddered remembering that night. He was watching a movie. He had an, what he called, _emotional_ day. When the videos from his childhood, he actually smiled - back when people still loved him for who he was, not what power or money he had. Back when Sherlock smiled when he saw Mycroft, and his parents waited with open arms. Back when he actually enjoyed christmas dinners, when he actually ate cake. Back when he actually enjoyed life. He smiled instead of wondering who got hold of them and why he was doing this.

He missed those days. At least then, Eurus - he still didn't like thinking about her - was just a little sister with weird tendencies, and Sherlock was the cheerful little emotional child who always managed to make Mycroft smile. Now, Eurus was a psychotic murderer and Sherlock was a detective who solved crimes as an alternative for getting high. Both of them probably hated Mycroft now. And so did his parents, for feeding them lies.

But he was only trying to save all of them. And oh, how grave mistakes he had made. He was only trying to help. He was desperate.

And so, the torture began. He wondered where Sherlock had gotten his knack for drama from. Then he remembered that was he himself who introduced the idea of playing characters - boring evenings were made interesting when both of them dressed up as Shakespearan characters and enacting his plays. Sherlock didn't even know how to speak properly. He would stop and stutter and would read the script every five minutes. Exasperated, Mycroft improvised to let Sherlock have the script while acting.

They even played 'Romeo and Juliet'. Sherlock, of course, was Juliet, being the damsel in distress and yelling "Remayo!" He would sneak the gowns from mother's closet, and the sleeves would hang comically off his shoulder. He would pull the little of his hair back in a ponytail. Sherlock never thought that mother found out, but Mycroft had a feeling that she knew about the gowns which got dirty from the hems just by being _in_ the closet. It was always Sherlock's favourite role. And he always spoke the names wrong. But his favourite was 'A Merchant Of Venice', and Mycroft knew that there was a copy of it in the Baker Street flat.

He was certainly having an emotional night. Turbulently emotional. He always thought that emotions were a weakness, a weakness to which Mycroft now was succumbing.

After having the scare of his life, he learned that it was John's idea. Mycroft knew that John was, ah, distasteful to Mycroft, to say the least, but he never expected him to convince Sherlock to scare him to death. The man was always sassy and rude, and a bit of pain in the arse, but at least he took care of Sherlock. Then he had to go to that poorly kept flat and be interrogated. Mycroft's pride almost died. His heart almost stopped, too, when he found out that Eurus had _actually_ gotten out.

Then he almost got blasted to pieces. As soon as he got better, Sherlock convinced him to take them to Sherrinford. Also, he talked Mycroft out of Laby Bracknell. Oh, such a pity. It would've been wonderful. Though Mycroft had to wonder where they would've fit in the role. But in the end, he became a sailor, and they reached Sherrinford alive, which was a big feat in itself. Sherlock would've made a wonderful pirate.

Then he almost shot the governor for not listening to him, and then was ordered to shoot him. Of course, he would not kill a man like that. But he died anyway. Right in front of his eyes.

* * *

There was blood, blood everywhere. Blood on glass. A man lying in front him with his brains blown out most disgustingly, his wife bound and gagged on the screen behind him. The gun, surprisingly was still in his hands. The dead man's hands. One of his eyes was weirdly rotated, and his body depicted a violent death.

Mycroft felt a tinge of relief. At least he didn't put the body there. As for his wife, well, if Dr. Watson could not do it, Mycroft doubted that he could have.

Sherlock picked up the gun from the dead man's hands. Mycroft knew that this blood and gore was usual to Sherlock. All in all, Sherlock did enjoy a good murder or suicide. But evidently, not in front of his eyes. Mycroft was surprised that he even tried to stop that man from killing himself. How unlike him. But exactly what he would've done.

And the little girl on the plane -he couldn't understand why Sherlock was so adamant on saving her. She didn't matter. She might not even be real.

The next level was more disgusting. First of all, Mycroft didn't like being made to prove his usefulness. And he really did not like three men falling to death right in front of his eyes. He knew that _she_ was condemning the murderer by killing his brothers for something he had done. But that wasn't justice at all. And Sherlock watched them fall, unflinchingly as he did. All his nervous energy from solving the case had died down, until only this emptiness was let.

The next level was considerably simple, but it almost destroyed Sherlock's sanity. Mycroft almost thought it was Irene Adler (even John Watson slightly flitted through his mind), but as it turned out, it was Sherlock's close friend, someone he would never hurt if he had the choice. And yet he did.

He could have found any other way, but he didn't. He didn't even try. Sherlock was so repulsed by what he had to do, he never considered any other option. And when he realised that it was a ruse, he lost it. And Mycroft had not seen him this shaken since Eurus drowned Victor, when he would wake Myc in the middle of the night and come to him, crying. Weeping about his best friend that he used to play pirates with. And that's when Mycroft decided that he needed to make a soldier out of him, because any other way would be too painful, and so crippling.

And when John Watson offered Sherlock his hand and told him to be a soldier, Mycroft was struck by cruel irony - the man who made him a soldier stood forgotten by the wall, while the only person who made him human asked him to be a soldier.

The next level was certainly worse.

* * *

Mycroft for once, wished that someone would see through his acting. He was tired of being responsible and selfless all the time. Yes, the wish was selfish, selfish indeed, but he never expected to feel _betrayed_ when Sherlock pointed the gun towards him.

He had hoped that Sherlock would kill him. It would certainly be better for all three of them. Sherlock would have his best friend and would have killed his arch-enemy, John would survive, and Mycroft would not have to live with the guilt of robbing his brother of his best friend (or maybe boyfriend). But Myc felt so, so weak at that point. As if Sherlock pointed out that he was acting, he would fall to the floor and cry. He almost did when Sherlock pointed it out, but managed a grim smile.

Only a few minutes. Then he'd never have to pretend again. But Myc wished so much that would Sherlock remember the time when he didn't hate Myc, the time Myc made him forget. It still hurt him sometimes, to be hated by the person he loved the most. Loved him enough to make him hate Myc. It would be the best for him, best for the little Sherlock who never took any responsibility, best for the little Sherlock who cried if you didn't get him ice-cream, to forget his happiest times along with the worst. And after this, Myc would never have to pretend to hate the little Sherlock he loved so much.

But Sherlock poised the gun to his chin, and Mycroft was relieved to find a dart sticking from his neck.

* * *

He woke up in that cell again. With the dead body. He screamed, having lost all of his self control. And then he almost screamed again, remembering his last memory. Was Sherlock dead somewhere? He prayed to God he wasn't. What had he done, masquerading into this hellhole? He didn't know where his brother was, he didn't even know whether he was alive, and there was this dead rotting body in front of him. It wasn't rotting yet, to be precise, but Mycroft's mind having deviated from the well-worn tracks thought it was.

Oh God, this was a nightmare!

Mycroft sank into the floor. He stood as far from the dead body as possible. There, on the screen, some clips recorded by James Moriarty were playing. He never regretted his decision to bring Moriarty to Eurus more.

But observing them carefully, he realised that they were not meant for him. None of them expected Sherlock to spare Mycroft. Mycroft felt an odd sense of satisfaction knowing that things didn't go like they had planned.

And he just sat there, his face in his hands, ignoring that dead effing body six metres from him, for about a millenium, until soft hands pried his from his face gently. It was Gregory Lestrade, the detective inspector. He looked a little shaken to have seen Mycroft like that, and then the embarrassment kicked him - the whole team was there, and they saw Mycroft like this. He shakily got up, and subconsciously brushed his arms. Lestrade guided him to the ambulance gently, and wrapped an orange blanket around his shoulders. Mycroft clutched it childishly.

"Do you want to tell me what happened? If you don't, 's fine." said Lestrade in his husky voice.

If Mycroft could fall in love, this man would certainly be the best candidate. He almost blushed at this thought.

"I..." he cleared his throat, his voice weak from all the screaming, "I think I am alright. Do you have any idea how and where my brother is?"

"Oh, he's just outside, with John who almost drowned." the man said, feigning indifference poorly, "He's fine."

"Ah, thank you. He will tell you what happened." Mycroft hesitated, "Also, could you do me a favour?"

"Yes?" said Lestrade, his eyes all earnest and black and Mycroft almost thought that he could be the kind that falls in love.

"Look after him. He is not as strong as he thinks he is."


	4. The Landlady

**Hey y'all!**

 **Hope you're enjoying the story. Sorry for the delay though, had some work.**

 **I do not own Sherlock.**

* * *

This work was treacherous.

Martha felt like exploding from this jumble of emotions, most prominently anger and worry, both directed at the boys. Though most of the anger was directed at Mycroft Holmes.

As it turned out, every sibling of Sherlock was extremely stupid except for him. Sherlock had told her what happened. That was one of the first things he did when he came back from Sherrinford.

He looked shaken, worse than he had been when he was using. Sunken cheeks, and wet eyes. And his hands shook when he was picking cookies off the plate. Sherlock looked _so_ guilty as he apologised for blowing up the house. Martha forgave him. After all, it wasn't his fault. As irresponsible as he seemed, he always took the responsibility when it mattered. Like it mattered when he found out what her husband was doing to her. When she lost her son. He was human, even though he tried not to be.

And when Sherlock told her about what his sister did, Mrs. Hudson was horrified. Poor Sherlock, he'd've been better off without her. And she almost killed Doctor Watson! Sherlock's first love! If Sherlock was broken now, the loss of John would destroy him.

Even though both of them denied it, Martha thought so. They were each other's universes, and while she didn't know what kind of love it was, it was there in abundance. She remembered what had become of Sherlock when John left. She shuddered even thinking of it.

It was the evening of the _experiment_.

As soon as Sherlock got off the helicopter, he got to Baker Street. It was still in tatters. Sherlock rushes in, and kissed Martha on the forehead.

"Are you alright, Mrs. Hudson?"

Of course she was. Sherlock knew she was. But then why was he looking into her eyes with so much earnestness, waiting for her answer?

She realised that he wasn't asking about her body, but her feelings.

"Of course I am, Sherlock. Would you like some tea?"

"If you insist," he said "Though I've come to apologise"

Sherlock wasn't ever this kind.

"What for? There's nothing to apologise for, simply some explanations required." Martha said, "I'll go get the tea"

After settling down on the table with some cookies and tea, Sherlock cleared his throat and began.

"I'm so sorry for all the damage I—"

"What's wrong, dearie?"

Sherlock never apologised. He had done that only once, when her son passed away even when Sherlock tried his best to keep him alive. Not after being dead for two years. Not even after almost overdosing himself.

Sherlock put his hands in his head.

"Sherlock?"

Nothing. So Mrs. Hudson decided to go over to him and give him a hug, and Sherlock eagerly complied, wrapping his arms around her.

"Everything's wrong, Mrs. Hudson, everything."

He said as he looked up to her. His eyes were shining.

So Mrs. Hudson stayed that way, for a while, and after what seemed like hours, he collected himself and told her what had happened.

It was the next day that she saw John, and she couldn't help being angry, since all her sympathy was used up. The did ruin her house, after all. They should all be glad that her car in the garage wasn't damaged.

But since even John seemed clearly shaken, so she just made an angry face, gave them some tea, and left them to their work.

* * *

Later that day, when both of them had left, there was a visitor.

A fat middle aged woman with a 10-year-old child, who Martha recognised as the page boy from John's wedding, came around looking for Sherlock. Said that the boy wanted to see Sherlock, and thought they would just make a surprise visit.

They clearly looked rich, but the lady had an awful fashion taste. So Martha told them that Sherlock was staying at John's place, and that they should go see them in the morning.

They were just relatives visiting, but Martha had a feeling that there was much more behind it.


End file.
